


Tape Reels

by Blank_Ideas



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, M/M, Mentioned Jonah Magnus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blank_Ideas/pseuds/Blank_Ideas
Summary: Tape Recorder!Jon au inspired by a rather angsty conversation on the discord server.In the apocalypse (still ruled by Jonah) Martin is an avatar of the lonely and along side him he carries the tape encompassing what remains of Jonathan Sims, the previous archivist.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Tape Reels

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm aware this chapter is short but really I needed it out of my head, with time I will definitely come back to this an add more because I have lots i want to do with the au.  
> In the mean time my tumblr is p4prometheus , so if you feel like asking questions- feel free to!

“Hello Jon,” Martin murmured into the cool black box, his fingers shaking as he held its smooth surface tightly, thumb slowly caressing it’s whirring skin, “Been a while.”

A quiet tenseness resides between the unspoken words that follow, filled with a distant yet desperate yearning and even worse still a stinging sensation of frustration. Feelings mounted atop one another, lingering and squirming within their pile, almost tangible to the naked eye- of which there were only two.

Martin's eyes welled with tears, squinting through the pressure in the back of his sockets as he took another heavy quivering breath. His lungs ached as much as his eyes did, throat sore and dry. Everything hurt. That had become readily apparent the moment he stepped through the bitter tasting mist of the lonely and into the Ash scarred room of Jon's office. 

Still it remained despite all they'd done, hiding away deep beneath the panopticon where that wolf in sheep's clothing still roamed and wandered and watched. Martin stiffened, his grip about the tape recorder tightening before he finally relented and placed it atop the desk top surface, its surface shiny in comparison to the charred wood below. He looks away, unable to watch as the by all accounts dead metal box seemed to shudder out its own long awaited breath, the sound distorted and cracking up beneath the natural whirls of the tapes residing within. As if a man surfacing from drowning so long the thing wheezed and spluttered, struggling upon the desk as Martin busied himself 

The tape says nothing, but it's running and it's already filled with a thousand words. A thousand scenarios, hundreds of memories and almost a decades worth of time between the start of all things spooky and the ending, or rather the slow march to the end, the apocalypse.

Martin wishes it would say something.

Martin wishes for lots of things.

Things that won't happen. Things that could never happen.

Martin begins to feel very lonely.

The chair squeals as Martin's steady grasp pulled it across the floor, metal creaking as he seats himself slowly and ignores the way his aching bones popped and relaxed, the very muscle and marrow within him pleased with a chance to rest even if the breath in his throat caught, knowing full well what was coming. He sits back and makes himself comfortable as he deposits the bag from his back upon the floor and rests it against the desk, trying to drown out the heavy breathing seemingly trying to fill the hollow room with his own soft humming.

Martin leans forward and takes out a set of smoke smelling statements, the papers rigid and heat cracked as he sifts through them and scans the contents and titles with an air of practised ease. He's done this before. It doesn't do much but he's done this before.

There is comfort in repetition.

"Statement of Marcus Richardson, regarding the cemetery near his home town."

His voice is shaking, why is it shaking like that?  
It doesn't dip like Jon's would, instead it evens out as he finds himself focusing more so on the yellowed paper and black neat print words then the way the tape recorder finally quiets, attentive and curious despite all the knowledge it already held.

"There’s a graveyard near where I grew up. It's weird. Weird as hell. No I don't have some set up or big speech prepared, I don't have a justification or reasons as to why I'm not crazy because- I- I don't know. Maybe I am. And this is all stuck in my head. Who knows? Thinking about it now that's probably why I'm here."

Martin finishes the statement, gradually and slowly. Relishing the peace of a moment where he is not constantly on his feet and struggling as well as the soothing sound of a loved one's complete attention. For a moment towards the end, emersed in a story about thick black vines tumbling from open graves, he can almost forget the dingy little office he's sat in, the ones that smells of ash, charred and gasoline. The small epicentre of destruction they'd made for themselves deep beneath the eye of the panopticon, at its core- Jon's office.

As he closes the file Martin is reminded quietly of their failure and even as the tape recorder almost hums in satisfaction, Martin had never felt lonelier. And so he begins to cry.


End file.
